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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28210443">Roil</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506'>Project0506</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Soft Wars [130]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Brothers doing the best they can, Character Study, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Star Wars AU - Soft Wars</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:43:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,506</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28210443</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunter's mutation leaves him hypersensitive to stimuli.  There are downsides.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Soft Wars [130]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683775</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>272</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Soft Wars Fic Exchange</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Roil</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaito_Dragneel/gifts">Kaito_Dragneel</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy Ficmas Kaito!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“That work for you, <em>chief</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>Almost, Hunter thinks, and maybe he thinks he’s a little tired. They’d almost made it all the way through the brief without interruption or diversion. A few words more and they would have scattered to their various jobs.</p><p> </p><p>Hunter is worn-dull exhausted and there’s a heaviness in his bones he doesn’t want to recognize. He’s tired of all of this, he thinks: of this interminable planning session, of huddles around bright blue displays under dim green ceiling lights, of carefully-chosen words and painfully-performative discussion. Hunter is tired. He doesn’t want to recognize what that means. He looks away from the heat-mirage shiver of lights. He’s uncomfortably aware of every reflective surface.</p><p> </p><p>Silence oozes through the <em>Marauder</em> like the first warning breech of magma to air before the eruption. Cpl Fives isn’t stupid: he hears, he notices. He must. He doesn’t react. No awkward shuffles, no obstinate stiffness, it’s as if the words hold no meaning whatsoever.</p><p> </p><p>Tech buries his head in something that probably doesn’t need to be twiddled with. Wrecker adopts his emptiest face and stares hard at something invisible near the ceiling. Crosshair’s vicious little smile slowly twists into a vicious little snarl as seconds flick up on the wallchrono.</p><p> </p><p>Cpl Fives studies the topography with a nonchalance Hunter would be willing to admire on any other day. The silence scrabbles on. Hunter’s left eye wavers in focus.</p><p> </p><p>In a breath or two Hunter would probably have done… something, he doesn’t know what – jam a stylus against his temple to preempt the pounding, or through the web of someone’s fingers to cut the crap. In a breath or two Hunter would have done something vaguely regrettable, but Cpl Fives shifts. It’s a simple transferring weight from one foot to another, an easing out of tendons that tighten along the spine. Natural, casual. Performative.</p><p> </p><p>His blink of surprise and glance around doesn’t even look so much as fake, and Hunter couldn’t say why that bubbles light irritation in him. “Sgt Hunter’s the one running this,” Cpl Fives offers as though any of them think otherwise.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m aware,” Crosshair snaps. The trailing ‘are you?’ is unsaid and well-heard. “Dunno if his plans are <em>good enough</em> for you though, Reg.”</p><p> </p><p>Cpl Fives’ idiot act is nearly better than Wrecker’s. “Hi,” he drawls, “I’m Fives. I’m here to explode things.”</p><p> </p><p>Crosshair’s teeth click audibly on his toothpick. Cpl Fives points polite confusion at him and while Crosshair makes it a game to see who he can get to throw the first punch, he’s so close to forfeit Hunter can feel intent pounding in the very back of his teeth.</p><p> </p><p>“Crosshair.”</p><p> </p><p>The sniper ignores him. His veins stand out blue-green in his clenched fists and neck.</p><p> </p><p>“If you wanted a tactician you would have asked for Echo.”</p><p> </p><p>“We didn’t ask for <em>anyone</em>,” Crosshair snarls.</p><p> </p><p>Cpl Fives shrugs, casual so casual. Lifts his hands like a ‘well there you go’. He turns back to the holotable and the only thing Crosshair takes worse than being ignored is being dismissed.</p><p> </p><p>Wrecker catches one fist, Tech the opposite elbow. They don’t know why Cpl Fives is here, what he’s evaluating. They know letting Crosshair at him will not end well.</p><p> </p><p>Hunter feels the Corporal's eyes following them as they haul the sniper a bay over. The assessing hits like a slug to the base of Hunter’s skull. He almost twists to crack his neck, instinctive attempt to ease pressure that only has ever does what it wanted.</p><p> </p><p>They’re told Cpl Fives will run with them on this mission. The Bad Batch aren’t fools: they know what a multiple-objective operation smells like. They know, better than anyone, that if you don’t know what the objective is then the objective is you. Cpl Fives is here to observe, evaluate. Judge.</p><p> </p><p>Hunter keys the door closed behind his squad. He wonders if, before they’ve even taken the field, they’ve already failed.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Every man aboard is on edge, and not just from the smash-and-grab of an op they’re fast hurtling towards. The <em>Marauder</em> shudders through descent as smooth void meets roiling atmo. Somewhere not far below their feet there’s an old depot the Republic is very interested in getting records from. And they’re not too concerned about what state its left in afterwards. This is the kind of mission Fives usually adores.</p><p> </p><p>The ship rocks. Fives checks his clasps and pack again for something to do. It’s really nice to look at something that’s not sneering back at him. If this transit lasts much longer he might start talking to his munitions like Hevy does. It’ll be nice to hold a conversation with something that’s not, surprise of surprises, sneering back at him.</p><p> </p><p>He makes the mistake of looking up. Crosshair scowls grit-teeth disdain. Joy. It’s evolving.</p><p> </p><p>It started subtle enough, or something like subtle anyway. Fives has had the distinct displeasure of running across Crosshair before: the guy’s prickly, to put it lightly. He’s a right shiv in the shebs, to put it truthfully but Fives really is trying to be non-confrontational. Droidbait would be proud of him. The rest of Domino would have lined up to smack the guy one, but Droidbait would be proud of Fives anyway.</p><p> </p><p>So it’s not a surprise when he clashes with the sniper right from the outset, for all that Fives has tried not. It’s still not a surprise when they collide again and again. The guy just finds everything Fives objectionable, he’d guess. Doesn’t like the way Fives says anything that could be an order, doesn’t like when Fives doesn’t give orders. Doesn’t like the way Fives takes his damn caff.</p><p> </p><p>Contrary, that’s a good word for him. Bastard is another.</p><p> </p><p>Non-confrontational, Fives reminds himself and smiles a grit of his own teeth. He’s pissed off at Crosshair’s incessant needling.</p><p> </p><p>He’s more pissed off at himself, at how long it took him to notice he’s been herded.</p><p> </p><p>Turbulence rumbles hard under their feet on entry and rattles the transport hard. Fives can’t see him well, but it seems as though Sgt Hunter’s grip on his handholds tightens to the point of painful.</p><p> </p><p>He’s pale at the edges, Fives thinks. He thinks there’s sweat beading along the dark ink under his eyes. He looks -</p><p> </p><p>“If you had a teleporter,” Wrecker booms from <em>far too close</em>. Fives leaps and the noise he makes is a <em>yell</em> not a squeak thank you very much.</p><p> </p><p>“Force fuck-”</p><p> </p><p>“What would you send yourself?” Wrecker grins, a huge floppy dumb-akk grin. A giant shooty-happy-bunny smile that maybe would fool Fives if it wasn’t Hardcase’s favorite way of deflection. “I would send bread.” His eyes go fond and distant. “Fresh, hot bread, no matter where you are.” His grin dips to considering for a moment, then shines all the brighter. “And bombs. Fresh hot bouncy bombs and bread for a snack.”</p><p> </p><p>How horribly convenient that Fives can’t see Hunter any more. Wrecker hovers over Fives, hands wrapped around the same holds just a little bit over Fives’ head, bulk blocking the entirety of Fives’ view.</p><p> </p><p>Somehow, Fives thinks as he meets the entirely guileless curiosity with the drollest deadpan he can manage, he gets the feeling that Wrecker will definitely not know what he means if he was to call him on this.</p><p> </p><p>Crosshair scuttles past Wrecker’s outside through space Fives is quite sure would immediately disappear if he were to try it.</p><p> </p><p>Subtle they might have been at the start. Every passing hour they get more and more blatant keeping Hunter away from him. He can’t make out words the Sniper and Scout murmur somewhere far aft, but he doesn’t think he’s imagining urgency and concern in the tone.</p><p> </p><p>“Is the Sergeant okay,” Fives tries and doesn’t expect an answer.</p><p> </p><p>He’s not wrong.</p><p> </p><p>“Sure, I guess?” Wrecker beams. “He’d be pretty great to have on hand. But I dunno how I feel about teleporting him. We need him you know. And besides, dunno how the teleporter would work on organics. What if it gave him tumors or something?”</p><p> </p><p>Fives gives up. Surely, <em>surely</em>, someone will let him know if there’s something wrong.</p><p> </p><p>“Your fictional teleporter might grow tumors?”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t think he’s imagining the relief on the Heavy Gunner’s face. “You never know!”</p><p> </p><p>“You <em>just</em> said you would send bread and explosives.”</p><p> </p><p>“What’s your point.”</p><p> </p><p>“If it grows tumors why would you <em>eat…</em>”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“What’s the hold-up?”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t mean to bark. When the first word had oozed out of his mind it had been concerned but they jumble together into something that licks sharp edges through the air. Hunter’s temple throbs. Tech flinches.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m working on it!” he snaps.</p><p> </p><p>This time it’s Hunter that only catches recoil once it’s started.</p><p> </p><p>Tech glances brief apology out of the corner of his eyes, but soon they tighten again with irritation. And desperation. For one long moment his hands rattle a clicking staccato of glove against panel before he forces them still. Tech swallows. “They rolled the codes,” he growls.</p><p> </p><p>The keypad swims in Hunter’s vision until the numbers all blend into needle-sharp blue blur piercing directly behind his eyes. He shifts, to put them out of his sightline, to block Tech from Cpl Fives’ direct view. Hunter can feel the tally the Reg must be keeping. He wishes he’d thought to stick him out on perimeter with Crosshair, instead of Wrecker. His thoughts feel like they come clear full minutes after he thinks them.</p><p> </p><p>“Tech,” he mutters.</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Tech grits back. “I <em>know</em>. I’m sorry. They rolled the codes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Can you crack them?”</p><p> </p><p>He’s close enough to feel the way Tech’s breath shakes.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. They do this every six days.”</p><p> </p><p>The words swim like the lights do, a rolling sludge of sounds that for just a second mean nothing at all.</p><p> </p><p>“-every time,” Tech babbles on and Hunter knows he’s lost time but not how much. “<em>Every</em> six days. I thought. I don’t know how I mistimed it. I <em>knew</em> a rekey was coming but.”</p><p> </p><p>“You forgot.”</p><p> </p><p>Tech swallows hard and curls around the innards of the access panel. Esoteric cabling winds every which way, fistfuls of them plugged into Tech’s holopad and buzzing and pulsing as he hammers at the input. Hunter feels each flashing byte in the roots of his molars.</p><p> </p><p>“-ter?”</p><p> </p><p>What? What did he-</p><p> </p><p>Tech’s staring at him. “Shit Hunter. How close?”</p><p> </p><p>Hunter’s mouth tastes of bile. His blood hammers systole-diastole against the back of his left eye. He swallows. His throat clenches so tight he’s afraid he soon might not be able to drag air through. “Get the doors open,” he says, he thinks he says.</p><p> </p><p>“Shit,” Tech hisses and Hunter thinks maybe the words didn’t form quite right. “Can you hold it off?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, everything okay?” For just one moment the voice crawls like nutrient paste in cold water. Cpl Fives’ face swims in Hunter’s vision. He forces focus and he knows as the vision steadies that he will pay for this later.</p><p> </p><p>“Everything would be <em>just fine</em>,” Tech growls, “if you back off and let me do my job. Hey!”</p><p> </p><p>Cpl Fives isn’t looking at him. He’s looking at Hunter. In that moment, Hunter knows: it isn’t Crosshair or Wrecker or Tech Cpl Fives is here to evaluate.</p><p> </p><p>Tech puffs up as much as he can; Hunter finds himself shoved back between him and the depot doors. Cpl Fives won’t be deterred. He shoulders past the slicer as if he hardly noticed him there.</p><p> </p><p>They’re failing, Hunter knows. Hunter’s failing. His squad needs him to hold out.</p><p> </p><p>“Sgt Hunter.”</p><p> </p><p>Hunter is riding the edge, but he knows every nick it will cut. He has adrenaline surging hot through his veins, enough to carry him through. The aftermath will devastate but Hunter knows how to walk this line. He’s done it his entire life. This moment is more vital than any before. “I am mission-ready.”</p><p> </p><p>Cpl Fives thinks he hears a lie. “Yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>“If he <em>says</em> he is-”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m calling it,” Cpl Fives says. Orders, for the first time this mission. Finally, finally he drops the act. Hunter breathes shaky and can’t tear a protest up from his throat. He’s made his analysis. Hunter knows he’s failed. “Pull everyone back. <em>Now</em> Trooper.”</p><p> </p><p>Tech looks to him for approval, guidance, anything. What he sees on Hunter’s face bleaches his own pale, clenches his jaw tight. He says something and Hunter nods because he feels it’s the right response. He can’t hear over the ringing.</p><p> </p><p>Hunter remembers the blast of cold night air between the depot entry bay and the blessedly dark night beyond it. He remembers the bludgeon of lights pouring down the <em>Marauder's</em> gangplank. He remembers a rail like solid ice under his hands, hands like course-grit sandpaper closing like vices on his arms.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t remember anything else.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“<em>Corporal, can I have a minute?”</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Torrent Company has, over the war, weaponized a sort of determined cavalier approach to anyone man or beast. It’s a little bit the type of trooper recruited for the Company, a lot the type of people in Company Command. Domino Squad had ‘issues with authority’ from the tube: years under the likes of Captain Rex and Lt Jesse meant that there was never any chance of changing that.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Fives still finds himself stunned silent at the talent, the importance, carefully-casually dispersing from Ghost Company dorms. That there is Marshall Commander of Star Corps who’s holding the entire Mid-Rim nearly singlehandedly. Over there is the SiC the of 91st, and he’s head-bent in serious conversation with a vod in colors Fives doesn’t recognize but with a confidence that says he’s paid back every scratch to his shell a hundred-fold. There, striding down the center and drawing eyes: that’s ARC-77, Fordo, blood red jaig-eyes that Prime himself granted shining like a beacon. Disappearing through one side door, dressed down in plain civs: that’s Alpha-θ2. Fives knows him by scar and reputation and Cutup’s breathless litany of his exploits that none of them should really have heard.</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>That’s the GAR’s Marshall Commander coming up on Fives’ right. That’s the GAR’s Marshall Commander falling into step with him. Fives finds his mouth dry and his tongue and clumsy in his mouth. There’s maybe a time or two when Fives bought into his own irreverent act; that all escapes him now.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Marshall Commander Cody gestures forward. Fives can only nod, dumbly, and follow.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>There’s a delicate deliberateness to the Vode if you’re able to look.  Nothing so crass as hurry, or so obvious.  Nothing like staging, nothing being packed.  But if things are positioned conveniently, if things have slowly disappeared amid the noise of the usual restock schedule well.  It’s coincidence.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A huddle of Ghosts curl around their shells, share drinks and laugh and refresh their paint.  It’s all normal, expected.  There’s anticipation in their grins.  The words they scribble in each others’ pieces can’t manage to hide the giddiness behind the mockery.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>There’s a rainbow of vode in the cluster next to them and though Fives hasn’t tried to hear what they’re celebrating there’s no mistaking the joy of it.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Hope. It’s hope in this place.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“<em>I’d like to ask for a small favor, on your next mission.”</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A hundred levels above their heads there’s a transport waiting to take Fives to orbit.  There’s a half-a-galaxy grid of intersecting Companies waiting to deliver him to what everything he’s read says is a routine intel gathering mission, notable only for the mercs he’ll be running with.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>There’s only one answer Fives can have for this man.  “Yes.”  His right hand forms a sign that to Vode once meant Glory.  Now, it means Victory.   Freedom.  Alor.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Kote smiles, and it’s a leonine sort of satisfaction.</em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“<em>It’s a little complicated</em>,” Barriss admits.</p><p> </p><p>Fives manages a smile for her. “That’s okay,” he jokes, “I never understand any of that stuff anyway. Use small words?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>You aren’t nearly as cute as you think you are</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Kark you I’m adorable.” Fives waits for her to get halfway through an eye-roll. “Don’t tell Commander Gree I said that in front of you.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>You</em>-” She growls like an aggrieved hamster and clenches her hands as though she has to physically stop herself from reaching through the holoterminal and throttling him. “<em>You are over deep f-fucking water, Corporal!</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Yeah, their Ahsoka found herself a cute one.</p><p> </p><p>“Right, right, sorry!” he grins. Barriss closes a fist, twists her wrist just so in a shove-it-up-where-the-sonics-don’t-reach and glares at his cackle.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Actual tubie,</em>” she hisses and yeah, Fives has been getting that from just about every medic he’s ever met.</p><p> </p><p>“I try.” Fives isn’t sure if the rumble that sounds of disgust is some distortion of the link or a vocalization she actually makes deep in her throat. He’s pretty sure it isn’t anything a human could ever duplicate.</p><p> </p><p>As though he’s responding to the growl, Hunter shifts. Not much, just a twitch of a hand and foot, but it’s enough to dislodge the limbwarmer under his ankles. Fives rushes to replace it. He checks on the back of his hand: cold. The chems are starting to oxidize out. He shakes another out of the box. These are the good ones; he barely has to rub it between his hands before the tibanoid beads inside the little flimsiweave packet starts to heat. He slides the fresh one under a bony ankle and tries to jostle it as little as possible.</p><p> </p><p>Barriss watches, her green face washed blue, all levity gone.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Organic brains are. Well. Complicated.</em>” She shrugs and it’s as though she tries to come across as casual. There’s an edge of anger to her helplessness Fives can see from a dozen systems away. “<em>Everything is interconnected. And migraines are a nerve-deep condition. You can’t just turn something off or take something out and everything is fixed. It’s all trial and error.”</em> She snorts. “<em>Really trial and analysis and error and repeat. Anything I do would affect a hundred other things and I’d need to watch for weeks, months maybe, before I could say if anything’s effective or detrimental.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“So,” Fives says and the smile he tries is harder this time. “You can’t fix it?”</p><p> </p><p>Both her fists slowly roll closed. Shit. “<em>I can only treat the symptoms right now</em>,” she says, a dull sort of empty.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey. Hey kid, come on. I know you tried.” Her jaw works sharp and dangerous and wrong. Barriss was made for peace, for healing and saving and growing. “Barriss. <em>You</em> know you tried everything you can.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>It’s not enough</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not yet.” There is not an icechip’s chance on Mustafar that Green Company will leave their kid behind, no more than Torrent would leave theirs. Fives taps sharp against the terminal rim, again and again, staccato annoyance until she’ll meet his eyes. “Right? Not yet.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Oya</em> her fingers form in her lap.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Months</em>,” she warns, soft enough Fives can barely make out the shape of the words. “<em>Maybe longer. And it’s still no guarantee anything will ever be 100% effective</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll figure something out,” Fives says, and means soon they’ll have all the time they’ll need.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Have them keep doing what they’ve been doing,</em>” she orders as she shrugs herself into her outer robes and hauls up armfuls of datapads. “<em>And keep him hydrated. I’ll need to do a lot of research before I’m comfortable prescribing anything stronger than the synth-recipe I’ve already sent you</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure thing Commander, sir,” Fives says and her kark-you-kindly is the friendliest one he’s seen.</p><p> </p><p>The holocom flickers dark in her wake and leaves nothing but the humming of the vents and two whispering rolls of breath.</p><p> </p><p>“You get all that?”</p><p> </p><p>Sgt Hunter doesn’t do him the insult of pretending. His eyes stay shut, his breathing steady. He reaches up to tuck the chillpak more firmly under his own neck. “Where’s my squad?”</p><p> </p><p>With his eyes closed he can’t see the way Fives rolls his. “Asleep,” he drawls. “I even called a Medic to make it an order. Threatened into showering and grabbing food too.” Politely threatened, but all three troopers scarpered on her even-tempered command. Fives started his watch shift twenty minutes ago. He gives them another ten, to be generous.</p><p> </p><p>The Sergeant makes a noise Fives just has to take as accepting. It’s interesting to watch him slowly test out his boundaries. He twitches his fingers, more and more and then moves his entire hand. Feet, toes first, then little rotations of the ankles, the slightest bend at the knee. A joint at a time, a little more each movement, sussing out the range of motions waiting for agony that doesn’t come.</p><p> </p><p>“She can’t fix the source just like that, she says,” Fives shares though he suspects he doesn’t have to. He suspects the Scout’s been awake for quite a while. “But she’s got plenty of practice with pain management. Might have run your synthesizer a little hot though.”</p><p> </p><p>Fives might as well be talking right to the void on the other side of the hull for all it matters to the Sergeant. His ginger inspection continues. Elbows, shoulders, neck. Eyes are last, once he’s proved for himself that everything else is safe.</p><p> </p><p>Not a trusting bunch, this one. Not even the ones who seem the nicest.</p><p> </p><p>He reaches a hand. It’s awkwardly long moments before Sgt Hunter accepts it and pulls himself upright. Goosepimples chase down his bare arms and he’s a little more willing to take the uppers Fives snags for him. And then there’s nothing left he can use to stall.</p><p> </p><p>Sgt Hunter meets Fives eyes like a man marching towards consequence. “What now.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a galaxy Fives could say. Lectures up the skidplate til he’s channeling the spirits of Barriss and Kix and Coric and every single other medic Fives has had the privilege of aggravating. In the end, one thought dominates. “Why?”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t mean it to sound hurt. The Sergeant looks away.</p><p> </p><p>“I can hold the pre-drome phase if I need to,” he answers the entirely wrong question. “It’ll lengthen the recovery time, but I am still able to be effective.”</p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t just lengthen the recovery time. Fives watched Wrecker and Crosshair hold him on his side, in case he vomited. Tech had cringed at every rattle of turbulence.</p><p> </p><p>“Why wouldn’t you say something?” Why wouldn’t you tell me, Fives means, because the Bad Batch all moved in ways that betrayed they’d all themselves known.</p><p> </p><p>“It wasn’t relevant.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Wasn’t-</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“What’s going to happen to my squad?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Why the fuck do you all keep asking that?</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Fuck. Fuck.</p><p> </p><p>Hunter’s eyes are glued to him now, and there’s real fear peeling away the stoic resignation.</p><p> </p><p>Fuck.</p><p> </p><p>“I need a second.”</p><p> </p><p>“Corporal-”</p><p> </p><p>“Give me. <em>One fucking second</em> Sgt. Please.”</p><p> </p><p>“...sir.”</p><p> </p><p>Fives puts his back to him, to both him and the door inching open and the alarm gathered at the threshold. Everything, all of it, he pushes behind him.</p><p> </p><p>I am angry, he thinks. I’ve been angry for a while.</p><p> </p><p><em>You’re allowed to be angry,</em> Anakin has said with the air of someone repeating something they’re trying to learn themselves. <em>You don’t control what makes you feel certain ways. You can only control what you do from there.</em></p><p> </p><p>I’m angry, Fives thinks, because Hunter put himself at risk. I’m angry because his squad mates let him put himself at risk.</p><p> </p><p>I’m angry because I let him put himself at risk.</p><p> </p><p>I’m angry because I made him feel like he had to put himself at risk.</p><p> </p><p>Well fuck.</p><p> </p><p><em>Be careful with introspection,</em> Anakin has said, with the air of someone who knows this all too well. <em>When you go digging for what your mind is hiding from you, it’s usually something you didn’t want to know.</em></p><p> </p><p>Fives scrubs rough hands through his hair. “I don’t know why you all thought I was here to do something. Split you up. Something. But I’m sorry I made you think that. I’m not, by the way.” He laughs and he can’t change how fake it sounds. “I’m here to blow shit up.”</p><p> </p><p>“Your orders -”</p><p> </p><p>“I volunteered.” Fives eyes the cracked door archly. “Are you coming in?” It whizzes shut. “Guess not.”</p><p> </p><p>He feels a little more centered when he turns to face the Scout. Hunter looks a little less trapped.</p><p> </p><p>“I volunteered. This mission rolled across the boards with an opening for demolition. I was on Coruscant with a ruck of brand new incendiaries I wanted to set off before I rendezvoused with Torrent so I didn’t have to share.”</p><p> </p><p>Fives will never breathe a single word of it to Torrent Engineering, but Green Company techs are <em>certifiable</em>. Fives is still trying to figure out a way to steal one or two back with him next time.</p><p> </p><p>“And. That’s it?”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s it.” Fives only realizes he’s pacing when he stops. He sighs and hefts himself up on the abandoned end of the gurney. A scatter of flimsiweave limbwarmers turn under his hands and he flips the cooling satchels up into the nearest recycler. “There’s a thing or two I promised to look into for someone, but nothing that would affect.” He flaps a hand idly.</p><p> </p><p>He accidentally bangs an IV pole and has to scrabble to keep from knocking it into some panel that looks delicate and expensive. He doesn’t curse at it, thank you.</p><p> </p><p>Hunter politely pretends he’s not openly snickering.</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing that would affect the mission,” Fives barrels on, determined that if he pretends that didn’t happen then the Universe or the Force or something will make it so. “And definitely nothing that would need you to try to push through a <em>migraine</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve done it before.”</p><p> </p><p>“Please don’t tell me that.”</p><p> </p><p>The vod’s smile is wry, but Fives is unnmoved. He’s had his fill of unpleasant revelations, at least for now.</p><p> </p><p>“We do what we have to do,” Hunter offers instead, the best he can do whether or not Fives wants to hear.</p><p> </p><p>Fives gives himself a second where he can be angry about that too.</p><p> </p><p>Soon, he reminds himself. Soon. “I don’t have to like it,” he mumbles and feels like nothing more than a petulant cadet.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t,” Hunter agrees. His tone leaves no room for argument.</p><p> </p><p>Fives is built for arguing, he’s good at it. He’s always been that special sort of duracrete-bucketed that will dig in like a hundtick and will barrel forward like a mudhorn. Today he swallows back his protests. He’ll blame Jesse for his newfound maturity. It sucks. “Please be safe,” he begs instead.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re as safe as anyone else in the war.” And that’s the best Fives will get.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t have to like it. But Hunter, and Hunter’s squad, has been working with and around his condition. They don’t need Fives swooping in to tell them how to manage what they’ve been managing for years. “And let people help, if they’re offering.”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t promise immediately and, somehow, it makes Fives feel better. “We’ll work on that,” he finally decides. It’s the best he can do, and it’s good enough.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll take it.”</p><p> </p><p>The synth chimes the end of its cycle, Barriss’ mix of meds blended together in a row of enough neat little pills for the next twenty four hours. Fives swings his ankles a little and debates whether or not to go pick them up, disturb the tableau. It’s nice, that the silence isn’t hostile. It’s still very silent. Not really his thing.</p><p> </p><p>“So,” Hunter offers, a Peacetree branch. His smile is a little embarrassed. It rolls years off his face. “You’re not here to evaluate the squad.”</p><p> </p><p>“Three stars,” Fives snorts. “Extra points for wonderful chorus of echoing empty buckets you’ve got going on.”</p><p> </p><p>“Huh. And where did we lose points?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well Hunter, for starters none of you cook for shit. Oh and maybe <em>use your words</em> vod.” Fives leans back on his hands. “<em>All of you</em>,” he yells at the door and feels just a little sadistic glee at the thump of someone startling, and the cursing as that someone slams into some other ones.</p><p> </p><p>Scramble echoes down the haul as troopers beat a quick retreat, and good riddance. Honestly, spying at the door, not a one of them thought about the vents that come right over the center of the room. Amateurs.</p><p> </p><p>Hunter’s shoulders shake with laughter. It’s strange to see how much this must have been weighing on him. The skull tattooed over half his face seems far less foreboding when stretched over the curve of his smile. His stubby little nerf tail braid (keeps it from knotting, Tech had challenged as if Fives had even asked what he was doing) sways jaunty with his humor.</p><p> </p><p>If there’s a little relief in that laugh, well, Fives won’t call him out on it.</p><p> </p><p>“We look out for each other,” he explains but doesn’t apologize. They’ve got each other, he means, and that’s all they’ve been able to count on.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Fives breathes. “About that.”</p><p> </p><p>Wariness springs to the foreground. Fives grips the younger vod’s shoulder before it can make that leap back to fear.</p><p> </p><p>The Scout breathes through his first instinct, and his second. Fives can see when he decides to trust.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Not Torrent.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Fives blinks. “I feel like I should take offense to that. Uh. Sir.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The Vod’alor smiles. He’s got a kind face. “Probably,” he admits. “And Rex will probably pout on principle. But that was the one thing just about everyone agreed on. Not Torrent.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“<em>We’re not that bad.”</em></p><p> </p><p>“<em>Vod. I see all the paperwork. You really, really are.”</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Fives groans. “We’re more <span class="u">noticed</span>, sir, that’s all. There’s a ton worse. Like-” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The Vod’alor is, right now, also the Marshall Commander of the GAR. Fives quickly thinks better about naming anyone in particular. He’s got a bag of shiny, shiny goodies that go boom and it would be a shame if sources of incendiaries happened to get sanctioned.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“<em>I uh. I’m sure there’s someone.”</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Smooth,” the Vod’alor drawls and Fives is sure he knows exactly the whos and whats.  Fives grins Echo’s most innocent grin.  No one ever buys it.  But no one ever bothers to call him on it either.  “Regardless, Torrent’s not on the table.  Star Corps’ Pathfinders is.  Quake Company.  Tango.  Hask.  8th Naval.  Any of the Strikes.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Fives nods, imprints them to memory. “I’ll ask,” he promises.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Good man.”</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>They’re steps from the transport pad and Fives wonders if this is the last time he’ll see Coruscant.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Sir?” His right hand forms <span class="u">Kote</span> nearly without thought and it feels almost as much a prayer as kot is. Fives never had a choice about who he would fight for, die for. He would fight for the pride in that smile. The Vod’alor closes a hand around his sign. </em></p><p> </p><p>“<em>Easy, vod’ika,” he murmurs. “You’ll wear that out quick.”</em></p><p> </p><p>“<em>Never sir.” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Fives’ Vod’alor laughs, and the press of hands-to-hand feels like approval. “What is it?”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Did <span class="u">you</span> have a preference?  Of Companies.”   He has an answer, Fives can tell.  He doesn’t want to say so, Fives can tell that too.  This really is the man who raised Captain Rex, who tries so hard to make sure his wants don’t influence his troopers’.  “Do I have a preference,” Fives offers instead, and this time his smile is his Captain’s cheekiest.  “Since I’m a lowly trooper who doesn’t have to worry about appearances of favoritism.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The Vod’alor laughs, laughs like foam that rides the tops of Kamino’s seas.  He pulls Fives into Keldabe.  “I think,” he whispers, a secret between them, “that you could maybe have a preference.”</em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“After,” Fives says, careful to only say what’s needed and nothing more. “<em>After</em>. If you want, and only if you want. There are … groups that are interested in allying with your unit.”</p><p> </p><p>The strategist of the Bad Batch doesn’t struggle to catch on. “The unit.”</p><p> </p><p>“Whole thing. You in charge, same as now. But.”</p><p> </p><p>“Allied.”</p><p> </p><p>Family, they can’t say, not yet. The Bad Batch has been promised they’d have themselves, after: no commanders, no masters. They’re the smallest unit to get that. There are voices concerned that they might think there are no other choices besides that, isolation or absorption.</p><p> </p><p>“They’re offering a base of operations, so to speak.” A place to be from, even if they never want to settle down.</p><p> </p><p>Vode who know them. Who they can call, and can trust will come. Will<em> help</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Who can maybe be there to put limbwarmers under his feet and chillpaks against his shoulders and make his squad sleep and shower while he can’t.</p><p> </p><p>Hunter is more than willing to consider: he’s tempted. “Who?”</p><p> </p><p>“A lot of people, it turns out.” Fives tucks his heels up under his thighs and grins. “I have a list that I’m not going to be at all objective about.”</p><p> </p><p>Hunter cackles. He matches Fives’ pose. Convince me, the tilt of his chin says. Fives grins.</p><p> </p><p>“Ever heard of the Munilist Strike Force? They’re hawkbatshit crazy assholes, you’d love them.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I went down <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NE1-dKc6R_I">this rabbit hole</a> too far to not inflict it on other folks.</p><p>Special thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaylaYuy">RogueLadyVader</a> for tons of questions and technical support!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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